Secret
by Chloethepirate
Summary: Everyone knows Sherlock has secrets, but what if there was one secret that he would rather die than tell people? What would happen if somebody found out...? - Had writer's block from hell, please review, it gives me more motivation to write!:)
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, not too sure what's going to become of this story. It may just be a one-shot, but if I get a couple reviews I might continue. We'll see.  
-Chloe**

**(Warnings: Self harm, suicidal thoughts, bad language.)**

Sherlock stood in the shower, letting the now cold water run down is back. This was the only place he felt he could relax, the only place his mind was not bombarded with everything. The only place he could think. He'd been in the shower for well over an hour, John had left the flat an hour and 4 minutes ago. He slowly bent down, his bones creaking as he did because he'd been in the same position for so long, and picked up a small sharp blade. He looked at it for a few minutes then slowly, he dragged the blade across the scar riddled skin of his upper thigh, watching as the scarlet of his blood danced along the line then spilled over, dripping down his leg. A flood of relief and comfort took over his mind and he revelled in that feeling for a few minutes, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks. He quickly dragged the blade across his skin again, watching the blood from both wounds come together. This time, the relief wasn't the same, he still felt the same comfort overcome his mind but this time is was not as long-lived. This has been his routine for a few years now. He had become dependent on it to make his mind work properly, but this was the first time that he had not got complete and utter satisfaction from harming himself. This revelation confused Sherlock completely and made him anxious and jittery, suddenly feeling the need to cut again, deeper this time. So he did. He lifted the blade to his ribs and dragged it across his right side, pushing in harder than he ever had before. Gritting his teeth together to keep him from yelling aloud his did it again and again before hearing the front door opening. This seemed to shock him from the self loathing mood he had sunk in to while he had been in the shower.  
"John, is that you?" the detective yelled, his voice husky. Suddenly wincing about the pain shouting caused on the fresh cuts on his ribs.  
"Yep, it's me!" he thought he heard in reply. He was starting to feel dizzy so he stepped out of the shower and dried himself, quickly getting dressed so he could try to go back to normalcy with John. Sherlock never treated his wounds, mostly they healed quite easily as he showered often and tried to not let them get infected, so naturally he didn't think anything of the new cuts.  
"We've got a case!" John said enthusiastically as Sherlock walked out of the bathroom.  
"Is it interesting? I'm bored of everything Lestrade gives us lately." Sherlock whispered, his vision was going in and out of focus and he had to sit down to make sure he didn't fall.  
"It's a great one, quadruple suicide, maybe a cult thing?" John beamed, and suddenly he reminded Sherlock of a dog, yapping and trying to please his master.  
"Let's go."  
Luckily, the crime scene had only been a short cab ride away and Sherlock had started to perk up again, deducing everyone around them in a vain attempt to show off to John, it had been the fun thing to do lately.  
To John, this had been completely normal, for as long as he'd known Sherlock he was always a show off, forever deducing pointless things about pointless people just for something to talk about. He and Sherlock had hit it off as soon as they met and soon after John became used to his eccentric ways and had even started to find them amusing, but lately things had been different... John noticed Sherlock had a lot more trouble thinking of things to talk about with him whereas the conversation used to be flawless and easy. He had noticed that Sherlock seemed to take him for granted more often; he rarely said please or thank you, not that he had much before but it was almost as if he didn't really care for such niceties anymore. This made John want to try even more, he knew he shouldn't give in and he should demand his respect but instead, it made him want to earn it. He tried harder than ever to get the younger man's attention, John knew this wasn't a normal thing for an adult to do and he felt like a teenager again doing it, but he felt he needed it. Sherlock was the one stable and interesting thing in his life and if the detective lost interest in him, he would have nobody. He couldn't go back to living that way. He couldn't go back to being the cold military man he used to be. Sherlock had taken that away from him and he would forever be grateful for it.  
Sherlock coughing brought John back from his thoughts, he seemed to clutch at his ribs in pain as he did so.  
"You okay mate?"  
"Perfectly fine John." Sherlock replied, but his voice broke slightly, showing he was lying. John looked at him sceptically. "We're here." He continued quickly, trying to change the subject. He was successful and John dropped the subject, quickly getting out of the cab and walking to the building of the crime scene, a sign stopped him in his tracks.  
"Sherlock, look at this." He shouted, pointing to the sign. Sherlock jogged up behind him.  
"St Mary's mental asylum." He read aloud. "Fitting."  
"Creepy." John whispered before walking into the building with long strides, Sherlock could see he was trying to take control of the situation and seem confident. He was probably scared.

While John was distracted, Sherlock took the opportunity to pull open his coat and look at the cuts on his torso, hoping to get some sort of satisfaction from seeing them again. What he saw shocked him. He didn't need to lift his shirt; bloods had seeped through his purple shirt, from his ribs down to his trousers were soaked in _red_. Dizzily, he buttoned up his coat and made his way into the building, thankful that you could not see the blood through the thick black material. His vision was fading in and out and he was suddenly completely filled with anxiety that somebody would find out his secret, he had been able to keep it a secret for so long that not even Mycroft could tell he was lying now. He couldn't have anybody know, he was known for his confidence, people knowing he cut himself daily was not something that showed confidence. He was snapped out of his thoughts by John grabbing his arm and pushing him into a small cell. There was 4 bodies lay in a circle, 2 girls and 2 boys, each with slashed wrists; they must have only been in their late teens. Their feet were all on top of each other in the middle of the small circle and placed lightly on top of their feet was a note, folded in half.  
"Has anybody read the note?" John asked to the rest of the detectives around.  
"No, we were asking for you to get here. Sherlock would you like to do the honours?" Lestrade answered calmly.

Slowly Sherlock walked towards the gruesome scene in front of him and picked up the small note, taking his time standing up as his ribs were making his movement and reaction time a lot slower. Opening the note, he read it aloud.  
"**Sherlock, I know your secret**." John watched as Sherlock's face paled when he read the note, his voice cracking and beginning to sweat on his forehead and neck.  
"Sherlock, are you okay?" that was the last thing the consulting detective heard as his knees collapsed beneath him and everything went black.

**Review? Make my day?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Some of the reviews I got literally made my day, I couldn't stop smiling at them! Thank you! I still don't really know what will become of this story, I'm in the middle of another story too and I feel quite a bit of pressure to finish that one, but for the time being Sherlock is taking the number one spot because he's sexier than Darren Shan. Also, I reread the last chapter and realised some mistakes I made, so I apologise for them. But, without further ado, here's the next chapter :) (Sorry for the shittiness of this chapter by the way, I promise to make next one more eventful!)**

John watched speechlessly as the strongest man he knew crumpled to the floor unconscious. Everything around him seemed to slow down and the doctor in him rose to the surface, thinking logically and quickly, this was his military training kicking in. He ran to the side of his best friend, undid his scarf in case it was restricting his airways and put him on his side, smoothing the black curls back from his damp forehead.  
"Don't just watch! Somebody call a bloody ambulance!" John yelled furiously, although he was a doctor he felt somehow wrong about treating his friend, almost as if it were a breach of his privacy which he would be scolded for after Sherlock was better.  
Sherlock was never much of a man for letting other people see his emotions and John could see, just from the way his face contorted in pain when he read the note, that Sherlock had been hiding something bigger than any of them thought. The question was, what was it?

The paramedics quickly arrived and loaded the unconscious detective onto a gurney and into a waiting ambulance.  
"Do you want to come with us or meet him at the hospital?" One of the paramedics asked John while he stood by the door. After a quick think over, he answered.  
"I'll meet you there, I'll go home and pick up a few things for him first." The paramedic nodded in reply and the ambulance drove away, siren blaring as it went.  
The ride home was filled with painfully awkward snippets of conversation with the cab driver about the weather, seemed to take twice as long as it did on the way there. John's mind was completely filled with worry for Sherlock and he found it hard to concentrate on anything else so eventually, the conversation stopped. The cab pulled up at 221B a couple of minutes later and John flung himself out with a quick "Wait here" to the cabbie over his shoulder. 5 minutes later he was back in the cab and on the way to the hospital. He wasn't really sure what to pack for Sherlock so he stuck to his instincts, things like pyjamas, underwear, toiletries, just in case he was emitted overnight.  
The cab quickly pulled up at A&E and John hopped out again, throwing a few notes at the cabbie, he'd probably over paid but at that moment in time he wasn't really concerned with money, he was more concerned with his best friend's health.  
"Sherlock Holmes!" He frantically yelled to the receptionist as he got into the waiting room. "Where's Sherlock Holmes?!"  
His patience was wearing thin and the concern for Sherlock's safety was at the forefront of his mind.  
"Follow me, Sir." The receptionist said as she began to walk through a door "He's been asking for you. I must warn you though, he's very weak at the moment and is finding it hard to stay awake." John nodded and he was soon led to a room.  
The sight before him made his breath catch in his throat. Sherlock looked _exhausted. _His face was pale and sunken with large black circles under his eyes, he looked like he'd aged 10 years in the past hour.  
Sherlock still hadn't noticed his presence yet so he took the opportunity to ask the receptionist what was wrong with him.  
"Actually Sir, he told us we weren't allowed to tell you." The young lady quickly replied.  
"He what?!" John yelled, this caught the sick man's attention and his head swung round. Curls were stuck to his head with sweat and his lips looked cracked and sore, but underneath all that, he was smiling. A quick, reassuring smile that John understood to mean that he was okay and he didn't want the matter pushed.  
"Can you give us some time?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounded hoarse and deep as he looked from the receptionist up at John. The young lady scuttled off without another word.  
John looked more worried than usual and this in turn made Sherlock worried. He had been sick before and John hadn't really taken much notice, just gave him a once over and a cup of tea. This time there was a deep line between his brows and his fingernails were chewed up and tapping quickly against his other hand as he sat down.  
"You alright mate?" John said after some time, his eyes meeting Sherlock's swiftly then looking back down at his bitten fingernails. This made Sherlock chuckle, which he quickly regretted as he clutched at ribs and bit down on his bottom lip hard. He was pretty sure he'd ripped a couple of his stitches out, not that he'd tell the doctor. He felt blood trickle down his chin and groaned, he'd bitten his lip too hard. The groan caught the military man's attention and made him shoot up, looking flustered.  
"Sherlock! What the- How did- Why is your- What?" It was almost comical the way John jumped around the room, trying to decide whether to get a nurse or not. Sherlock interrupted his inner battle.  
"You're a doctor John, I don't need anybody else. I bit my lip by accident is all. You can look at it if it'd make you stop jumping around like a lunatic!"  
John looked at him quickly, taking him up on his offer and his pulled Sherlock's lower lip down to look at the damage, it was only a couple of small cuts, they weren't going to kill him and that's all the mattered. Sighing, John quickly sat down in the chair again, picking up a bag and throwing it on the bed.  
"I brought you some stuff, I didn't know what you'd need. I'm assuming you're staying in overnight in case anything gets worse?"  
"I would assume so also, not that I need it. I feel much better now." Sherlock scanned the room "Ugh, hospitals are so tedious. The white walls, the scratchy bedding. Everything is _too _clean."  
"I know what you mean, when I got shot in Afghanistan they'd run out of room in the normal wards because there was too many injuries so I had to stay in a children's ward. A whole week resting in that damn room with a bunch of moaning children. I swear, by the end of it I was talking to the animals that were painted on the wall." That reminded him. "Sherlock, mate, you never did tell me why you're in here. Why you fainted I mean. The receptionist told me you said they weren't allowed to tell me." John looked down to his feet, trying to take some pressure off the younger man. Sherlock didn't need an interrogation right now, he needed a friend.  
"I'm here mate," John continued, "Whatever's up, it's fine." This made Sherlock think, it made him _remember_. The note. Who knew his secret? He shook with fright once more, but then looked down towards his best friend. Would it be such a bad thing to tell John? What would he think? Sure, he knew John was loyal, but what would he think once he knew this confident persona was all a lie.  
"John..." Sherlock muttered "Will you judge me?"  
"Never."  
Sherlock mused over that for a couple of minutes, would he really not judge him, really not think any different of him? John was all he had and he needed it to stay that way... But he didn't want to lie anymore; the strong wall he'd kept up was slowly being knocked down by this tenacious man in front of him. What if the person who knew his secret told John anyway? That would completely take away any trust there was between them. He was going to tell the truth. He'd never cared what people thought of him, but with John... He didn't want to lose him.  
"John, this is serious. Do you promise not to think any differently of me?"  
"I swear on my life."  
John watched as Sherlock slowly pushed down his sheets to his knees and lifted up his hospital gown, leaving him in just his underwear. Deep, angry looking cuts covered the tops of his thighs and bottom of his stomach. His eyes continued upwards but stopped when he saw 4 slashes on Sherlock's protruding ribs, fresh blood was running out of them steadily as it looked like he'd ripped out a few of his stitches.  
"W-who did this?"  
"John, I did it to myself."

** Again, I'm really sorry if this is bad. I tried to write it quickly and I just kept getting writer's block. Also, I was just wondering, would you like me to make this a Johnlock fic or would you just like them to stay close friends?**

**Review? Make my day?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for the reviews, I appreciate them so much! I still don't know if I feel this story is very good… But I have some big plans for the next few chapters! This chapter is mostly character development and stuff like that, but it'll get more exciting, I promiseJ  
Quick thank you to my friend Charly, she was the beta reader for this chapter J  
-Chloe**

"Y-you what?" John's eyes were wide with shock, unable to comprehend the last words Sherlock had said.  
"I did it to myself John. Remember what you promised." Sherlock whispered. His voice didn't sound his own, it was ragged and breathy. He watched John flinch again at his words, if his best friend didn't keep his promise he would be alone once more, the craving to hurt himself was worse when he was alone.  
"I know, Sherlock. I just can't get my head around it." He grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled his hospital gown back down and the sheets back over them. "Why?"  
"John, it's quite a boring story I assure you. Do you really need to know?"  
John gave him a long, pleading look and Sherlock stared right back at him, trying to take some control of the direction of the conversation. He kept hold of his hand.  
"Sherlock, please understand. I've just found out my best friend ... _mutilates _himself." His breath caught in his throat once more before he regained his composure and continued. "And you refuse to tell me why. Can I at least ask a few questions? You owe me that much."  
"I suppose so." Sherlock turned his nose up. To others this may have seemed snobbish or conceited, but John saw past that. Sherlock had always been in control of everything, the people around him, his job, his thoughts, and now that he realised he could no longer control an aspect of his own life, his automatic reaction was to pretend he didn't care. John stroked his hand reassuringly.  
"Okay, well when did you start harming yourself?" John whispered. He was finding it increasingly harder to say what Sherlock was doing to himself.  
"About 16 years ago." The detective muttered and John's eyebrows shot up. He was not expecting it to be that long but he had to keep calm, for Sherlock's sake.  
"Okay...Originally, why did you start doing it?" Sherlock sighed and looked towards the floor, dropping John's hand from his own.  
"It's tedious."  
John stroked Sherlock's arm softly, trying to prompt the story out of him. Their eyes connected again and he smiled slightly.  
"Please Sherlock, I need to understand."  
"Fine." Sherlock sighed again and chewed at his lips, trying to figure out how to start. "It started when I was 20. Mycroft was 25 and no longer living with our father. They were the main reason I started this... My father never really liked me; he was always somewhat... intimidated by my brother and me, that's why Mycroft moved out as soon as he left university. I was in the same situation my brother was in at my age, though, unlike him, I had absolutely no money so there was no way I could move out to get away. I had never been able to keep a job more than a couple of days; I had absolutely no social skills and the bosses I had didn't like me deducing their love lives but ultimately I found it very hard, keeping my emotions and deductions inside. My father was not a particularly pleasant man to live with. You know when sometimes I get too caught up in my deductions and begin to hurt a person's feelings but you stop me?" John nodded, listening intently. "Well my father had no one to stop him. He would constantly go on about how much of a disappointment I was and how I didn't deserve the gift I'd inherited. He said I would grow up to be a nobody. After a while of keeping my deductions to myself, this feeling began to build and build to a feeling of overwhelming anxiety. That's when I finally picked up a pair of scissors..." He left the sentence unfinished.  
"But Sherlock, why do you still hurt yourself then? You have me to tell your deductions to; you know how much they fascinate me!" John's voice was quivering and he was trying to imagine their life back to normalcy... he didn't think they'd be able to have that again.  
"That's not the only reason, that's just what started it..." John looked up at the man he admired again, his eyes pleading, asking him to continue.  
"I moved out when I was 22. I lived with these two men in a one bedroom council flat near my parent's home. One was a drug dealer and the other a well-known pimp. Of course I knew this when I moved in, but anything was better than living with my father. I ran out of money after two months of living with them and by the time they wanted their money, I had nothing to do but tell them I didn't have it. I didn't think they would have thrown me out so I was quite confident they wouldn't react badly. I couldn't predict what happened next. They allowed me to stay as long as I ate nothing but their leftovers, slept on the floor, only showered in cold water and didn't use any electricity. I went a month like that before I snapped. I wouldn't allow myself to be treated like a dog. I shouted at the men, screeched my deductions about their dull lives and how idiotic they were. This resulted in me being beaten within an inch of my life. I still didn't want to leave, I was stubborn and thought that anything was better than being undermined and outsmarted. I got regular beatings after that and that was what drove me to hurt myself daily, I needed at least some control of the situation I was in and that was the first thing I thought of. It was almost… comforting. After 6 months of living with daily beatings and living with bare essentials I managed to save enough money to get out. That's when I moved into Baker Street. But I'd become… addicted to the feeling of cutting, I was addicted to the adrenaline and the relief I felt after. The only reason I'm in hospital right now is because when I cut this morning the satisfaction was significantly lessened. That has never happened before. I just… I needed the feeling." Sherlock looked up from his feet to meet John's eyes. A thousand different emotions flashed through them; anger, sadness, surprise, pity, guilt. He sniffed as though he was holding back tears.  
"I-I…" John stuttered. "I don't know what to say. I just don't understand how you kept it a secret, you always seemed so… in control."  
"Like everyone else, I have my moments of weakness."  
"I'm sorry." John muttered, looking away and chewing his nails subconsciously. This made Sherlock smile, John was always so empathetic.  
"You have nothing to be sorry for John. Before I forget, did you get anywhere with the case? With who was behind it, I mean?" Sherlock was trying to change the subject, he felt suddenly out of control again.  
"You want to talk about the case? Now?" his eyebrows shot up and he looked at his friend suddenly. "Who am I kidding? Of course you do." The abrupt subject change had shocked him initially, but he had to remember that Sherlock didn't want anything to change between them, he wanted normalcy.  
"I'm not sure if they've figured anything out mate, I came straight from the asylum to see you. I can ring Lestrade if you'd like?" John asked. He felt sorry for his friend and was sure that Sherlock would deduce this, from the way John was holding himself or the dirt on his shoes, something ridiculous. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him and tried his hardest not to look back at him. John mind was overwhelmed with images of Sherlock; of him cutting, of his blood… His hand was shaking and he kept getting Lestrade's number wrong.  
"Sherlock H-Holmes?" a shaky voice called from the door and both men looked over. Stood at the foot of Sherlock's bed was the receptionist. Her hair was messy and her makeup smudged, mascara running down her face. She had an unreadable expression on her face, unreadable to John anyway. She quickly took a folded piece of paper from her dress pocket and handed it to Sherlock with an unsteady hand.  
"H-he told me to give you this. The man. He told me he'd torture me if I… Have this, take it!" She pushed the note into Sherlock's hand, her lip quivering and eyes watering.  
"He said he'd kill my mother… Please…" She fell to her knees and sobbed loudly while both men stared at her. John was the first to speak; he got up, helped her to her feet and shouted loudly for a doctor. When he arrived, she was quickly ushered out of the room without a word.  
John looked quickly back to Sherlock who was impossibly pale, the note still crumpled in his hand and his fingers gripped tight around it.  
"Do you want me to read it Sherlock?" The detective shook his head quickly; he had to do this himself. He slowly opened the piece of paper, taking his time. This would be another clue for the case, but the panic inside him was growing rapidly and it was getting harder to control his breathing.  
John was still staring at Sherlock, gauging his reaction to see if he needed his help. Sherlock's face then contorted into confusion, anger, then finally realisation as he quickly handed John the paper.  
"TQ2688272200120812" He read aloud. "What does that mean?"  
Sherlock smiled and took the piece of paper back swiftly.  
"It's a grid reference, a time and today's date. This is where we'll find him."  
"But Sherlock, you're in hospital! Not to mention you need to be stitched up again." John pleaded with him; after today's events Sherlock's welfare was at the forefront of his mind.  
"Come on then John, you're a doctor, stitch me up quick and let's go."  
John knew Sherlock would leave whether he was stitched up or not, so he caved in and lifted up his hospital gown again.  
"Where would I be without my blogger?" Sherlock muttered and placed his head back against the pillow. He was anxious to leave and even more anxious to come face to face with the only man beside John who knew his secret. The thought made his skin itch with anger; he didn't know whether or not this man had killed those teenagers but at this moment he didn't care. He wanted him dead.

**Review? Make my day?**


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry I haven't written in so long! I've had maaaaajor writer's block and I hadn't a clue what to write. I've got some ideas now though so just bare with me please! Reviews would be much appreciated; they give me the motivation to write:)  
-Chloe

_He was anxious to leave and even more anxious to come face to face with the only man besides John who knew his secret. The thought made his skin itch with anger; he didn't know whether or not this man had killed those teenagers, but at this moment he didn't care. He wanted him dead..._

"According to the map the grid reference is… the London Eye." John Watson looked up at Sherlock from where he was sat on the pavement, a map sprawled open in front of him and a confused look on his face.  
"I thought so." Sherlock muttered, his hands coming together and touching his chin with his fingertips; he almost looked like he was praying.  
"Hold on." John demanded. "You had me sit outside on the street looking through a map for fifteen minutes when you already knew where the grid reference was?"  
"It would appear so." Sherlock replied calmly.  
"You're impossible. Can you help me up?" John clasped onto Sherlock's arm and pulled himself up, he noticed Sherlock's wince as he did and looked down guilty, muttering an apology as he did. John still couldn't get over the fact that his best friend self harmed. He felt somehow responsible for not noticing sooner, not questioning things. He had often seen Sherlock come out of the bathroom or bedroom looking ghostly white with his hand on his stomach or leg. He had mostly put it down to a cold or an injury on a case. It killed him that he now knew that just before he'd seen him on these occasions he'd been slicing his own skin, enjoying the pain. In a way John Watson was disgusted and saddened that Sherlock thought so little of himself, but he did understand. He understood why he had become addicted. After Afghanistan John had often thought of hurting himself, just so that he could get his mind on something else instead of flashbacks of the people he'd killed. He soon found help and got better though. Sherlock had been a big part of that; he'd helped him forget.  
Sherlock's muttering brought John out of his thoughts.  
"…Can't think of who it would be… Who could know? Why would they kill them? What would it prove?" John let the detective whisper to himself for a few more minutes. From experience he knew Sherlock needed a few minutes silence to himself to fully process the situation. He was taking a noticeably longer time trying to understand this than usual though. That worried John.  
"Sherlock?" he asked tentatively, not wanting to startle him out of his trance. Sherlock closed his eyes slowly and when he reopened them, he had his composure back. The emotional barrier he'd kept up for so long was now back and stronger than ever; he wasn't going to show anybody but himself his weaknesses tonight. Quickly, he looked at his watch and began walking.  
"Come, John." He called behind him, waving his hand in the direction in which he was walking, his long legs taking him much further than John's could, who struggled to keep up. The walk to the London Eye was long. Especially because Sherlock had become extremely mistrustful of cab drivers; he'd become convinced the person who knew his secret was a taxi driver. Perhaps they had seen blood on his shirt or him clutching at his body when he climbed inside the car, Sherlock didn't know which it could be, only that he couldn't take that chance again. Of course, John understood why he was suddenly so suspicious, past experiences had helped with that paranoia.  
"What do you think will happen when we get there?" John asked tentatively, feeling almost childlike next to the tall detective but not really expecting an answer.  
"I'm not sure… perhaps there'll be bombs thrown left, right and centre. Or maybe there'll be a duel." Sherlock was being sarcastic, this only ever happened when he was stuck with a case, which worried John too. Sherlock had never really needed help on a case before, and this was the most important case he'd been on so far. This case could determine if he still had a career, a reputation, a life. He would have none of that if his secret got out. He'd be known as a freak, and not just by Donovan. Scotland Yard would make him go to rehab; the newspapers would be all over it. He could see the headline now: 'Sherlock Holmes: Genius or Insane?' He felt himself begin to tremble at the thought. He looked over at John suddenly, who was silent, staring at the floor as he walked. The colour drained from Sherlock's face and his hands balled into fists. Thoughts of having nobody filled his mind and he could tell he was losing control of himself, fast. The emotional wall he'd put up was slowly but surely coming down and he knew what he needed to do. Sherlock shoved his hands in his coat pockets looking for the object he needed but the movement made John's head snap up. He questioned Sherlock with his eyes.  
"Cold." was the reply to the silent question. He rummaged around in his pocket until he found what he wanted. "Is there a toilet round here somewhere?"  
"There's probably one in this pub." John replied, and Sherlock hurriedly followed him in.

Sherlock was forced to buy something by the bartender if he wanted to use the toilet. He was tempted to just deduce the bartender to confuse him, so Sherlock could slide past, but he felt too weak-kneed to do that. He bought a single shot of vodka and hurried to the toilet, locking himself in the larger disabled cubicle. He slid down the door and sighed, putting the shot next to him and pulling the item out of his pocket. He was feeling more and more out of control, more frantic. Quickly shrugging his coat off, he looked at the object in his hand: the long, sharp scalpel gleamed in the fluorescent bathroom light. He'd stolen the blade before John had come to the hospital to collect him. He thought of John and was suddenly conflicted.

John would be so disappointed…

_John wouldn't find out. No one would._

He rolled his sleeve shirt up to his shoulder and admired the many small scars scattered around the inside of his upper arm. He touched them lightly, basking in the memory of the pain it brought him. Still half in memory, half aware, he pressed the blade against his snow white skin and dragged it slowly down. The pain made him gasp and the crimson blood poured from his arm, dripping onto the floor and pooling near his legs. He sighed in happiness as waves of pain came over him. He lifted the blade from his skin and stared at the mark he'd made. At about 5 inches long, this was one of the bigger cuts on his body and Sherlock was almost proud of it. Suddenly, remembering the shot he'd bought, he poured it over the gash slowly. _Searing pain_. His whole mind went blank and he felt nothing but the pain in his arm. His vision blurred as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He was astounded at the amount of pain the alcohol produced but finally, he felt calm. He felt_ better._

Loud beating on the door broke him from his cloud of pain and euphoria.  
"Sherlock! You better not be doing what I think you're doing!" John's voice went through a series of emotions; anger, hurt, disappointment, concern, fright. Sherlock quickly picked himself up, wrapped his cut in toilet paper, cleaned up the blood and put his coat back on. He opened the door and looked down at John who was staring right back at him.  
"What were you doing Sherlock?" His voice was accusatory.  
"Nothing, I was just nervous, trying to get some Dutch courage, isn't that what people say?" He let himself half-smile and held the shot glass up, his fingers shaking slightly, not that John noticed. Sherlock felt slightly guilty for lying to his best friend, but after seeing John's look of relief, the guilt disappeared and they walked together out of the pub. The London Eye was only a few hundred yards away and Sherlock had noticeably picked up his speed, John having to keep up by running. Sherlock was unbelievably anxious to see who knew his secret and why,_ how_ they could _possibly_ know.

The pods of the observation wheel were dark as they came closer and Sherlock wondered if perhaps this was a joke. A practical joke gone too far… He started to turn away when a familiar voice caught his attention.  
"Ah, Sherlock, it's been a long time since we've seen each other." The voice was cold and deep, dragging out the words in a decidedly unpleasant way.  
Sherlock spun back around and a man stood near the bottom of the eye.  
_"…Dad?"_


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm really sorry it's been so long, I've been having a rough time lately and have had no inspiration whatsoever. I hope this chapter is okay and let me know if you're still actually reading this!**  
**-Chloe**

_"Ah, Sherlock, it's been a long time since we've seen each other." The voice was cold and deep, dragging out the words in a decidedly unpleasant way.  
Sherlock spun back around and a man stood near the bottom of the eye.  
__"…Dad?"_

John watched in fascination as the man who made Sherlock start harming himself walked towards them. Anger rose in his throat and he looked back to Sherlock, who was white and stiff with fright. The fact that the man stood in front of him could make THE Sherlock Holmes scared made him shiver a little.  
"Hello son, how have you been?" Sherlock's father said, fixing his gloves and pulling his scarf from his neck. In a way they looked a lot alike, same coloured eyes, same curly hair though his father's was speckled with grey and he was slightly taller than Sherlock. John pretended he didn't see the likeness and clenched his fists in irritation at what this man had done to his best friend.  
"I'm sure you know. Been spying on me have you?" Sherlock's voice wavered but he tried to stand his ground as the man he hadn't seen in years came face to face with him.  
"Oh, I'm hurt!" he feigned shock before his face dropped back to a smug smile.

Sherlock's face was a questionmark, his eyes studied his father thouroughly.

"You've killed somebody else apart from the four teenagers today. Hold on. No." Sherlock waited. His father smiled. "You've not done the killing, you just helped bury her.'

His father looked down at his fingernails, pulled a knife from his pocket and carefully scraped the mud from under them.

"As good as always my son, I see you haven't lost your keen eye. But do tell me Sherlock, how did you see it?" Sherlock knew his father knew how he'd known, he was doing this to prove a point.

"Your nails, obviously, they're covered in mud, you buried her. That was my first clue. You also have a long blonde hair on your shirt, that's how I knew she was a girl. No man you would be seen with would have that long hair, therefore a woman. I knew you hadn't killed her because there is a splatter of blood on the back of your neck, the only way it could have got there is if you were faced away from the place of death, I suspect she was either beaten to death or shot. Am I right?" Sherlock's breath was fast and his heart was pounding with anxiety.

"Right as always." He smiled as if it were an inside joke. "Beaten to death." He winked at Sherlock before facing John.

"Ooh, I can see our dear Sherlock's told you about me!"

John looked down at his hands which were clenched into fists. He released them and looked from Sherlock to his father.

"Yes, Mr Holmes, he's told me." John spoke through his teeth as the older man walked towards him

"Oh do call me Siger, I'd like us to be on a first name basis John. You and I are going to become quite accustomed to eachother soon and I wanted us to start out this long journey as friends." He put out his hand for John to shake. He ignored it.

"We're not going to be friends. You've killed 5 people today."

Siger leant in slowly until his lips were right next to John's ear, he felt his body tense.

"If you don't be polite I'm sure I can kill one more, Mr Millitary man."

John's eyes back were on Sherlock's as his father leant back to stare at John, it was almost like they were having a silent conversation, forming a silent plan. Siger Holmes didn't appreciate it.

"Ooh, son, have you finally got yourself a boyfriend?" He mocked.

"We're friends." John said, he wanted to make this easier for Sherlock, he couldn't imagine how he must be feeling.

"Oh John, you must be mistaken, Sherlock doesn't have friends! He's all alone in his old little world of self hate and paranoia." He giggled. "It's quite sick of him really, he likes other people to think he's oh so smart but honestly, he's the stupidest person I have ever known. And now, now you have a big secret that only me and Mr Millitary man know. Oh, and of course my friends!"

Sherlock stared at his father, John remembered the phrase 'if looks could kill.' He thought that fitted this momment.

"Friends?"

"You know them actually son, Darren North and Don Flemming."

At that moment Sherlock knew he wouldn't make it through the rest of the night, whether he was killed or not. If these people knew his secret he would end his life. Unconciously he brought his arm up and pressed the cut he'd made earlier. The minor pain calmed him slightly. He sighed.

"Oh Sherlock, how tedious you are. They're ever so anxious to see you again. Boys!"

Two men walked out from behind a phone box, they were both large and in all black. The taller one had dozens of scars on his bald head, the other had a huge hoodie on to hide his face, a glint of a blade shone in his hand. John could tell these were dangerous men that were not to be messed with. He put his hand in his pocket and held the gun he always carried with him.

"Hello again slave, it's been a while." The taller of the two men said as he walked up to Sherlock, getting into his face. Sherlock shrunk back in response. John was surprised to see him act like this; it was not like him to get so worked up and scared.

"Darren." Sherlock stood up straight and put his hands in his pockets, trying to regain some sort of control.  
The shorter one, who John assumed must have been Don walked towards him; he stared at him, like an animal assessing its prey.

"Did the slave tell you about us?" Don asked in a gruff voice, smiling to show gold teeth.

"I think so, let me guess. You're the drug dealer and he's the pimp?"

"Ah, very clever. You and the slave are well suited for each other! So tell me this Mr Military man, did Slave tell you how much he begged us not to hurt him every time we'd beat him up? Kind of ironic now, isn't it?" Don drew a line with his finger on his wrist, a smile playing on the corners of his lips. "I'd bet he'd beg us to hurt him now, the fucking freak."

John didn't let his face convey how he was feeling. He was the strong one again now. He _was_ the Military man. Slowly, he pulled out his gun and lifted it to show Don.

"I was in the army, Don. Don't you dare talk about my friend like that." John whispered and held the gun towards Don, finger on trigger.

That was when all hell broke loose.

**Sorry for the shitty ending, I was running out of time but wanted to upload this asap. I also realised after I wrote this that 'Military man' sounds like a super hero… Ignore that. Please review? I would really really appreciate it!**


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